never-minding the bone-cold knuckles of dusk closing in

as the sun topples over the edge

and great velvet pools burgeon in the glaciers

sheering up their flanks like loving fingers, reaching

while the bracken-russety slopes

painted ripe as rosy apple-peel

great shafts of claret and cinnamon

are splodged across the slopes of wild-fire glory.

 

Lights prick on, dotted in the valleys

beckoning to home – the hearth and warmth

and head-lamps, like luminous centepedes

make shiny trails, blobbed in the hasty gloaming

 

so I too scurry back for tea.

 

Nov '09